by A. S. Green
I use the call box to get buzzed back into Jax’s building. Simple enough, but when I exit the elevator, the door from reception to the command center is locked. There’s a black key-card reader with a red light, and it seems intent on keeping me out. Not knowing what else to do, I shift my packages to one arm and knock. Then I pound. I have the distinct feeling that I’m being watched, probably on one of those dozens of monitors.
Eventually, a guy with dark hair gelled into a faux ’hawk opens the door a crack. He’s wearing fingerless gloves, a tight black jacket with lots of silver zippers, and black skinny jeans. He doesn’t look like the beefy members of Jax’s crew who were on the island. He looks like he’s more into the punk scene and only forgoes the eyeliner at work.
“Yes?” he asks.
“Uh, hi. I’m with Jax.”
He raises his eyebrows and opens the door wider. I slip back into the command center and try not to sweat as the few people who have arrived watch me, loaded with bags and flowers, cross the floor toward the corner that rounds into the long corridor.
When I get there, I drop off the box of doughnuts in the break room and tell a room of six strangers, “Good morning!” and “Please, help yourself.”
Then I continue down the hall that dead-ends at Jax’s apartment. There isn’t another key-card reader here. This time it’s a flat scanner faintly marked by a palm print.
I glance over my shoulder. Two of the men from the break room—a handsome Hispanic guy whose nose looks like it was once broken and an Italian-looking guy who’s built like a cage fighter and wears his dark-brown hair pulled back in a man bun—have moved into the hallway to watch me. They’re clearly amused by my debacle.
“I don’t suppose either of you can open the door?” I ask.
“Sorry, nena,” says the Hispanic guy. He’s dressed in black jeans and a black dress shirt with the sleeves folded up.
Cage Fighter is wearing black nylon track pants and a black JSI polo shirt. His arms are so muscled he’s straining the sleeves. He gives me a wide, toothy grin.
“Okeydokey, then.” I set the bags down at my feet, then knock. Quietly at first—then, remembering how zonked out Jax was when I left, more loudly. After a few seconds, the door slides open and Jax is standing there, looking rumpled and sexy as hell.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey,” he says. It sounds like a question.
I pick up the bags, and he moves aside so I can walk in. I think I catch him make eye contact with the guys down the hall before the door slides shut. I move straight for the kitchen and start unloading.
“You touched my files,” he says, leveling those beautiful gray eyes on me.
“Yeah,” I say, “I was afraid—”
“And made coffee.”
“I thought you’d need some when you woke up.”
“What’s all that?” he asks, gesturing at the bags.
“Some groceries. Your cupboards were empty after being on the road. It was the least I could do.” I start looking for something to put the flowers in.
“Stop,” he says.
“Hmm?” I find a beer pitcher—it’ll do—and fill it with water.
“Natalie, stop.”
I put the flowers in the water and set the pitcher in the kitchen window before turning to face him. “Stop what?”
“Whatever this is you think you’re doing.”
I glance over my shoulder to see what, of all my activities, has gotten his attention, but I see nothing unusual or in need of stopping. “I’m not doing anything.”
“You’ve picked up my things, done my shopping, and brought in flowers.”
“That’s not anything.”
“That’s not nothing,” he says.
I fold my arms and bite down on my lip before I say something that’s going to piss him off even more.
“I pay someone to do all that,” he says. “That’s not why you’re here. You’re here to get off that island, get some training, and do something real.”
“And that’s it?”
His face softens but somehow maintains a tightness at the corners of his eyes. “That’s enough. The rest… Well…give me five minutes to get dressed for work, then I’ll get you started. My receptionist should be here soon; she’s also my HR department. She’ll have some forms for you to sign. After that, I’m going to get you set up on surveillance.”
“Like a stakeout?”
“Like a monitor.”
“A monitor?” I assumed I’d be in the field. Didn’t I do as good a job as I thought I had?
“Everyone starts on a monitor.” He strips off his shirt, then turns.
My mouth goes dry at the sight of his body as he disappears into the bathroom. A second later, the shower turns on.
Once my mind is working again, I’m hit by the full impact of what he’s said. I’m going to be sitting in that big room with a couple dozen strangers instead of working in the field with him. It’s like, for him, the last few days didn’t even happen. He really meant it when he said I’d just be his employee.
I sigh and refill my coffee cup, then I take a seat on the couch, willing myself to stay calm. While I wait, I check my messages. Two from Kate; one from Rachel; five from my dad. He’s looking for Rachel’s phone number. His last message says, Never mind. I’ll just drive over to her house.
I answer all of them, except for my dad, who seems to have things figured out for now, and once I’m done I fuss with the stack of Jax’s files, lining up the corners. That’s when he steps out. He’s clean shaven again, and his thick, dark-blond hair is perfectly arranged, much like it was at the Lenz mansion. He’s not in a tuxedo but a dark-gray suit that matches his eyes, with a crisp white dress shirt opened two buttons at the top. No tie. Fuck, he’s sexy.
“Natalie?” He almost smiles at my obvious stupor then, without warning, pulls me to my feet. His arm slips around my waist, and he kisses me.
I’m so shocked, it takes me a second to recognize the way his full lips are moving against mine. This is more than a kiss. He’s sending me a message again. The last time, his kiss was supposed to tell me how much he wanted me to stay. I missed that message. This one comes across loud and clear. This time, he’s the one saying goodbye.
I inhale and press myself deeper into his body. He told me it had to be this way, but I didn’t believe him. I should have believed him.
He sucks on my bottom lip before letting me go. “Fuck me,” he whispers. “I am really going to miss that.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Natalie
We exit the apartment, and Jax keeps a good six inches of space between us as we walk down the hallway. I know why he’s doing it and what I’ve agreed to, but the forced denial of what we’ve shared feels like an illicit secret.
I glance over at him, and at the same time he looks at me. Our eyes lock for a second, then his gaze drops to my lips. A rush of heat burns through me. I’d say something, except the moment is rudely interrupted.
“There you are, whoever you are,” the Hispanic man says cheerily, stepping out of the break room and raising his doughnut like a champagne toast.
The cage fighter steps out, too. “Thanks for breakfast.”
“You’re welcome,” I say, giving Jax another sideways glance, but this time one that says, See how it’s done? A simple thank-you isn’t so hard.
Then I turn back to the men and give them my philosophy on life. “All the best days start with doughnuts.”
They laugh, but I get the sense from Jax that doughnuts are frowned upon. I suppose, judging by the two guys in front of me, a totally ripped workforce is likely part of the dress code. I wonder if Jax is going to make me join a gym. Goodbye, nacho butt.
“This is Natalie O’Brien.” Jax reaches for me, but then abruptly lets his hand fall to his side. So it begins. “New recruit. She’s been in the field with me the last few days. This is Morales,” he says, indicating the Hispanic man, “and Spanos,” the cage fighter.
>
They both seem curious about why the new recruit is coming and going out of the boss’s apartment so early in the morning, but neither of them asks.
“Can you give her a tour?” Jax asks Morales, ignoring their expressions. “Then set her up. I’ve got a meeting in twenty.”
Wait. What? “You’re leaving?” I ask.
Jax leans closer. I can smell his skin, fresh from the shower. “Learn your job,” he says. “I’ll be back this afternoon, and I’ve got some more things to talk to you about.”
Then, without ceremony, he turns abruptly and leaves. I watch him take a right around the corner, then disappear.
After a few beats of silence, Morales clears his throat. “Well. I guess it’s welcome aboard, Natalie. You can call me Mo. Sounds like I’ll be showing you around.” I’m still staring at the spot where I last saw Jax. A large hand waves in front of my face, then snaps its fingers twice. “Uh, Natalie?”
“Huh?” I ask, blinking.
“I said, I’m going to show you around. Did you hear any of that? Name’s Mo. Mo Morales.”
I continue to stare at the corner where Jax disappeared, then, when it dawns on me what he said, I turn and look up. “Your name is Mo-Mo Morales?”
He chuckles. “Actually, Luis Morales, but everyone calls me Mo. That is, except for Mr. Sparke. He prefers to keep things more formal, so it’s Morales when he’s around.”
“Nick Spanos,” the cage fighter says, shaking my hand with his nonsticky one. “Skip trace mostly. On the road a lot, so I won’t see you much. Too bad.” He pops the last of the doughnut in his mouth and licks his fingers.
“I’m sure it’s my loss,” I say, hoping he picks up my friendly vibe and doesn’t read it as sarcasm.
Nick turns toward Mo. “I think I’m going to like her.”
Mo doesn’t disagree, but he makes a move like it’s time to get down to business. “Okay. First things.”
Mo and I leave the break room, and I follow him into the equipment room, where he opens a cabinet that’s mounted on the wall. He swings the doors open, and inside are several types of nonlethal weapons.
I reach out to touch one. “Am I going to get my own stun gun?”
Mo grabs my wrist and pulls my hand back. “Stun guns are illegal for civilians in New York.”
“Then why does Jax have them?”
“Mr. Sparke has been granted peace officer status. Titus and Denny Murray, too. You’ll meet Denny later. He’s Mr. Sparke’s second in command. They can use the stun guns in New York. Laws are different in other states, so the rest of the team can use them when they’re on different jobs. The field guys are licensed to carry actual guns. The gun safe is over there.” He points to the corner. “It’s locked.”
My eyes go back to the open equipment case. “Why are you showing them to me if I can’t use them?”
“Part of your job is equipment clerk. If people need them, you check them in and out and write the serial numbers in a book I’ll show you later. Now…” Mo leads me around the corner into the command center. The two young men from the night crew have gone home, and there’s a lot more activity than there had been before. Every computer is now manned, and several people are talking on the phone.
They’re all dressed in black, many wearing shirts with the JSI logo. My navy dress is a subtle difference but enough to make me feel out of place.
At one of the desks, a woman in her midthirties with long, shiny dark hair is hooking up a mouse to a new unit. I assume it’s mine, because the desk has a protective pad with the plastic wrapping still on it. At the back edge of the desk are a computer monitor and two additional surveillance monitors stacked on top of each other.
“You must be Natalie,” the woman says coming out of her crouch. “I’m Leslie Pritchard, human resources. Welcome to JSI.”
I look down at the desk, then around the room at all the people.
“It’s a bit overwhelming, isn’t it?” she says.
“I guess I heard about it, but I really had no idea Jax ran such a big operation.”
Leslie and Mo share a look that seems part surprise, part amusement. Based on Mo’s comment earlier, I have a feeling they’ve never heard Jax’s nickname before.
“JSI,” Leslie says, smiling, “is a privately held company that is quickly becoming the premier investigative and security-minded organization in the United States. It employs approximately thirty of the country’s most uniquely skilled computer experts from Silicon Valley. Many of its other personnel are government trained. JSI provides confidential services to some of the nation’s most high-profile politicians and celebrities, while also serving its own local community.” She ends with a wide, dazzling smile.
I am way out of my league with these people.
Mo laughs and says, “Great speech, Les.”
Leslie covers her forehead with her hand. “Oh, God. Sorry. I was up all night working on the new marketing brochures, and my brain hasn’t switched off. On top of that, one of the twins threw up red gas-station smoothie…”
“Wow,” I say. Sounds like a night.
“Wow is right,” she says. “Not a lot of sleep. I’m working on half a brain. Now, here. See how you like the chair, and I need you to sign these forms so I can get you on payroll.”
I sign and give the forms to Leslie, who goes back to the reception area. Mo sits on the edge of my desk and runs his fingernail along the plastic wrap on my desk pad while I adjust my chair up and down until it feels right.
When Nick Cage Fighter walks past us, he slings a small black pack over his shoulder and gives a two-fingered salute to the room, saying, “Out.”
“Skip is still pinging in Trenton,” says the young black woman whose workstation is immediately in front of mine. So far, I’ve only seen the back of her head. She wears her hair natural in a kick-ass afro.
“Got it,” Nick says as his eyes land on me. He doesn’t look away immediately, then he gives me a half smile, and he’s out the door.
“Yo, Nisi,” Mo says, and the same young woman spins around in her chair to face us. She has bright eyes and a wide smile, made all the more fantastic by plum-colored lipstick. “This is Natalie O’Brien. Mr. Sparke has her starting on surveillance. Natalie, this is Janeesa.”
“Good to meet you. You can call me Nisi, too.” She’s dressed in black—of course—like everyone else, but she’s showing her personal style in flared trousers and a wraparound blouse. Business conservative, but with a 1970s vibe. I wonder if she thrifts.
“Cool,” I say, and she smiles like we’ve been BFFs forever. When I look around, I think it might have more to do with the fact that I’m the only other woman in the room. Maybe she’s been desperate for a workplace girlfriend.
Nisi comes around to my side of the table and scoots an empty chair in close. “Are you ready?” she asks, like we’re preparing for liftoff.
“Always.”
She flips on my two monitors. One of them shows a darkened space with lots of hanging ropes and curtains. The other is a brightly lit, white cinder-block hallway. “What’s this?” I ask.
“Backstage at Citi Field. Roadies are bringing in the equipment for the Foo Fighters concert.”
“The Foo Fighters are playing tonight?” This assignment suddenly got a lot more interesting.
“That’s where Mr. Sparke went. He’s meeting with the band.”
Holy shit. I get a giddy feeling. Is that what Jax wants to talk to me about when he gets back? The more I think about it, I realize that’s exactly what’s going on. He knows the Foo Fighters are my favorite band. Not only did we have lengthy conversations about them in the past, I still sleep in their T-shirts, and he’s seen at least two of those.
He probably has comp tickets. Or…oh my God…maybe he means for me to watch from the wings! What a totally killer way for him to say, “Welcome to New York.” Okay. Deep breath. No need to freak out in front of my new coworker.
“So,” I say, totally chill. “What
am I supposed to be watching for?”
“Apparently they’ve had a stalker incident the last couple stops, and it’s been amping up. Started with desperate letters asking that they listen to a demo. Then threats when they didn’t respond. Whoever it is slashed one of their bus tires in Ottawa.”
She taps a pencil against her cheek. “So watch for anyone who doesn’t look like they know where they’re going, or like they don’t have a legitimate job to do. Any hesitation of movement…if you see someone out of place, alert Mo. If you need a break”—she points to the punk guy with all the zippers who’s sitting on the far side of the room—“Spencer will cover. Just give him a shout.”
“Got it,” I say. “This. Is. Righteous!”
Nisi bursts into a laugh. I don’t know what’s so funny. First day on the job and Jax has entrusted me with the task of keeping Dave Grohl alive. Life doesn’t get any more rock-and-roll than this, at least, not without holding a guitar.
…
Three hours in, and it’s not so righteous anymore. Staring at two monitors all morning is making me a little cross-eyed. I cover a yawn.
Nisi says, “You’ll get used to it,” without looking up from her own work.
“This is like watching plotless TV,” I say, rubbing my burning eyes.
“Think of it as reality TV without the confessionals.”
“I could stand a confessional about now. These are just nameless, shapeless bodies moving equipment. I’m sure one of them has something juicy going on in his head.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Nisi murmurs. “Like what?”
“Like…” I adopt the deep voice I imagine the guy on screen would have. “Hello, world, my name is Clint. I may be a lighting technician by day, but after the show I memorize medieval French poetry while sitting naked in the moonlight.” I drop the voice when Jax suddenly walks on camera. “Oh, hey, there’s Ja— I mean, Mr. Sparke.”
Nisi gives me a look over her shoulder that says she heard my slip and she’s not fooled by the “Mr. Sparke” routine. “You can forget about him jumping into any confessionals. He’s about as closed-lipped as they come. Great boss. Very generous with the staff, especially at the Christmas party, though he never comes himself.”
